A Promise to Keep (Out of Time Book 2) Read online

  A PROMISE TO KEEP

  Book 2 in the Out of Time series

  Loretta Livingstone

  Copyright © 2016 Loretta Livingstone

  Cover design by Cathy Helms Avalon Graphics

  ‘Lay to Eleanor’ copyright © 2013 Loretta Livingstone

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to any real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the written permission of the author except in the context of reviews or brief quotes, and all quotes should be accredited to the author. No part of this publication may be circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  My grateful thanks and appreciation to Phil Pembridge of the Plantagenet Medieval Society who kindly spent some time advising me where to find clothing and accessories for the twelfth century. Also thanks to Alexandra Arden of the Museum of London who was kind enough to advise me which museums would have the items I was interested in finding out more about. Special thanks to the lovely Helen Hollick for her help with all things equestrian and for her kind encouragement which means such a lot to me.

  Thanks also to my cousin, Claire Robinson, for her help with 21st century medical matters, and my wonderful beta readers, Marie Cockburn, Marie Godley, and Heidi Peltier. Their help has been invaluable. I couldn’t have done this without them.

  I also want to express my appreciation to Nicky Galliers for her brilliant editing and research skills. She made me dig deeper than I thought I was able. It may have made me howl a bit at the time, but I am very grateful she pushed me that little bit harder.

  And last, but never least, my especial thanks to Iain, my wonderful husband, who has endured many a late or burnt meal without complaint and listened patiently as I tried to herd my ideas into some kind of order.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  INTRODUCTION

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  BLOSSOM ON THE THORN

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  OTHER BOOKS BY THE AUTHOR

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  INTRODUCTION

  In 2006, Marion was visiting the Abbey of Sparnstow in southern England, an abbey that, like so many, owed its destruction to Henry VIII. Thanks to him, it was now little more than a romantic ruin.

  Accompanied by her two daughters, Marion was distracted by a strange buzzing which alarmed her since one of her daughters is allergic to bee stings. The buzzing, combined with the heat of the day, so disorientated her that she stumbled into a huge beech tree nearby, passing out and coming round to see a very different version of Sparnstow Abbey – the original twelfth century building.

  Despite her caution, Marion found herself the centre of attention when a young man was brought to the abbey, close to death. Marion, recognising the symptoms of anaphylactic shock, administered her daughter's EpiPen, saving his life.

  That's when she discovered she had saved Prince John, untrustworthy brother of King Richard I, who was embroiled in yet another treasonous plot, accompanied by his household knights who were led by Giles de Soutenay. Unfortunately, although his men had not seen Marion's intervention, John had and was determined to acquire both her and her mystical device. It fell to Giles to bring Marion to him; the price of failure would be unthinkable.

  Hildegarde, Abbess of Sparnstow, herself a refugee from a different age, was determined to thwart Prince John and return Marion to her own time. She needed to convince Giles to aid her. That, however, would put his life in peril. He consented, so long as Marion would agree to deliver two EpiPens every year at Whitsuntide via the beech tree.

  So far, she has kept her promise, but this year there is a problem.

  PROLOGUE

  Marion shifted restlessly. The pain was still there – it was what had woken her. That and her unquiet dreams. Her mouth was so dry. She reached for her water with hands that shook slightly and sipped a little before remembering she wasn’t supposed to drink; the op was scheduled for first thing tomorrow. Guiltily, she replaced the cup hoping one mouthful wouldn’t hurt.

  The ward was in semi-darkness. Somewhere, a machine bleeped urgently; soft moans and snuffles came from the other patients. Was it worth her trying to get back to sleep? She checked her watch. Her meds had worn off, and the next dose wasn’t due for another hour.

  It was bad enough worrying about Giles and Hildegarde without having to enlist the help of her younger daughter, whose dark, haunted eyes disturbed her. But Shannon was the only one who would have believed her.

  Marion shook her head. No, Shannon wouldn’t do anything stupid; she was the sensible one, not like Chloe. Besides, Shannon was going to France with friends as soon as she’d delivered the EpiPens. No, she wouldn’t miss that for anything; she’d been talking about it for months, and wasn’t that boyfriend of hers going too? What was his name? Jackson? Yes, that was the one.

  Anyway, she could trust Shannon; she’d promised. And tomorrow, at last, she would have her op.

  Finally, Marion relaxed; the pain eased a little, and she fell into a dreamless sleep, the quiet of the ward punctuated only by the occasional gentle snore from the bed next to hers.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Whit Monday 2012

  “Promise me you won’t go through. Just leave the injectors and walk away.” Marion had grasped Shannon’s wrist so tightly, it made her wince. “It’s dangerous. Promise me, Shannon!”

  Shannon had promised. And she’d meant it – at the time. But that was before she’d caught the man she thought was the love of her life cheating on her. That was when she thought she had a holiday in the Alps to look forward to. Hurt and angry, now, she was considering the unthinkable.

  It can’t be that dangerous; Mum did it. She got back okay, and she wasn’t even prepared. Shannon looked at her own well-stuffed bags complacently.

  It was only a holiday, Mum would be none the wiser. To cover her tracks, Shannon had told her the connections would be really bad – which was true enough.

  So, last chance to change my mind. But she wouldn’t – she knew that. Pulling out her mobile, she sent one final message. All done, she lied. Off to the airport now. You won’t be able to reach me. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. See you in 3 weeks x.

  Her mother must have been waiting. Immediately, a reply pinged back. Thanks, love. Have a gr8 time, x.

  Shannon’s brown hair was braided; her long, plain dress would pass as a shift. She glanced around – good, nobody in sight; she’d better be quick. Pulling on a dark grey undergown and a deep red bliaut
that laced at the sides, she dragged the wimple over her head and pinned a veil around it. Then, she turned her mobile off, put it into one of her bags and took a deep breath.

  The tree was just yards away. Already, she could hear it starting to buzz. Mum had hated the sound; she said it had made her feel ill, yet to Shannon, it was mellifluous, soothing. And it was like a gift really, wasn’t it? This chance had come just when she needed an excuse to get away. You can’t get much further away than the twelfth century, she thought with a grin. Then, taking another deep breath and crossing her fingers, she put one hand on the rippled bark. The vibrations beneath her palm felt as though they would go right through her. Fascinated, she watched her hand disappear into the trunk of the tree. This is it, then.

  Pulling her hand back, she picked up her bags and walked forward, legs shaking a little. She felt a slight resistance but kept going, closing her eyes and holding her breath as she pushed her face through. At first, she thought she might suffocate. The tree seemed to turn almost liquid but thick, a bit like walking through soup.

  As she wondered how long before she dared breathe, she heard a sort of popping sound, and her face came free. She put her hands up to her cheeks to wipe away the stuff she had just come through, but there was nothing there; her skin was dry and clear.

  Opening her eyes, she gaped about her. The scene was the same as the one she had just left, apart from the car park, which, obviously, wasn’t here now. A meadow to her right, woodland ahead of her, a stream to her left and a track alongside that. But the tree! The tree was half the size – well, that made sense. How old was it anyway? Did beeches even live that long?

  A frisson of excitement ran through her. Awesome! Shannon Hart – time traveller! And still, she felt as though she was in a dream.

  She looked across the meadow away from the woodland, gasping as she saw Sparnstow Abbey as it used to be, its graceful structure soaring in pale-coloured stone. It was magnificent! Wow! I’ve done it! I’ve really done it. A wild joy surged through her.

  Shannon stared at the abbey, entranced. Taking a step towards it, she caught her foot in the unaccustomed fabric swirling round her ankles. She dropped her bags and flailed her arms to save herself – too late. Over she went, as her trapped foot propelled her inexorably forward, landing awkwardly with a sickening thud. She sprawled on the ground for a moment, dazed, before trying to rise to her feet.

  As she pushed herself up, a sharp pain shot through her ankle, making her wince. She tried again to stand; the pain was too much, and she allowed herself to sink back down.

  What could she do? There was no one about, although that was probably a good thing, bearing in mind how she’d arrived, but it meant there was no one to help her, either. Well, she couldn’t sit here all day. It was a bit of a distance to crawl, and she could hardly arrive on her hands and knees anyway.

  If I can make it to the woods, I might be able to find a branch I can use to help me walk. And I could use my spare veil for strapping. That’ll help.

  Tensing against the pain, Shannon reached for her bags. She took out the veil and eased off her shoe, probing her ankle with cautious fingers, yelping as she touched the injury. Wrapping the veil tightly round her foot and ankle, she secured it, gritting her teeth as she pushed her foot back into her shoe.

  Now, all I have to do is get to the woods. Yeah, right. That’s going to hurt. I’ll have to crawl. First though, she rummaged in her bag again and pulled out the EpiPens she’d brought with her.

  She turned back to the tree and grubbed around the roots until she found the hollow her mum had told her about, pushing the devices deep inside and covering them with grass and leaves. When she’d finished, she surveyed her hands in dismay – her fingernails had mud beneath them, and her hands were grimy, more peasant than lady. Oh well, I can wipe them on the grass for now and wash them later.

  That job done, she crawled painfully across the grass, dragging her bags with her. At least away from the tree, the ground was dry. Once at the woods, Shannon rolled over and sat for a few moments holding her ankle. Now, let’s see if I can find a decent bit of wood.

  Spotting a fallen branch which looked to be a useful size, she stretched as far as she could without moving her legs until her fingers just touched the tip. Inching carefully sideways so she could grasp it, she pulled it towards her. She reckoned it would just about do. There was even a knobbly bit at the top she could hold it by.

  She eased to her feet, trying not to yelp again and leaned experimentally on the branch. It held her weight and, with it, she could manage to shuffle along. It hurt, but she could bear it – just.

  Limping heavily, she struggled over to the track by the stream. The straightest route would seem to be across the meadow, but this would be easiest for her, she thought. Here, where it wasn’t rutted, the ground was a bit more even than the meadow would be. The path, such as it was, had been worn smooth by the passage of feet. It was wider than she remembered it to be back in 2012, but it was probably used more now than then – or was it then than now? Trying to ignore the increasing pain in her ankle by puzzling over which tense she should be using, the past or the present, she was lost in her thoughts and didn’t hear the party of riders coming up behind her.

  CHAPTER TWO

  April 1197

  Isabella pressed her lips together mutinously. Reluctant though she had been to wed Giles, she’d been permitted no choice in the matter. Married to Baldwin at just fourteen, widowhood had come as a great relief to her three years later. Indeed, she had considered taking holy vows. Her heart had sunk when the Queen had taken an interest in her welfare. Welfare! Her lips had twisted in derision. And just who was this impoverished knight who was to become her lord and have the right to plunder her estate? But there had been no escape.

  On her wedding day, she had gritted her teeth, held her head high and responded to the priest in colourless tones. But Giles, she discovered, was a very different man to Baldwin, who had expected nothing from her save duty.

  She’d learnt and learnt speedily. Baldwin had known nothing of love, had not been beyond bruising her or sending her tumbling to the floor with a powerful backhanded blow if she had not pleased him quickly enough. Mayhap it was a sin, but when he died, she rejoiced. Surely, God would understand. Surely, He had freed her from her cage. And then, she had been promised in wedlock again. And again to someone not of her choosing.

  Baldwin had been well-favoured, although he stank. He had rarely bathed, believing it was not healthy, and was careless of his dress. Heaven only knew why her elegant father had chosen him for her. The love of rank and fortune must have overpowered any finer feelings.

  She had wept and pined when told of her first betrothal, to no avail. And had discovered beyond that easy smile had been a cold heart, a ready fist.

  And now, her father was less than satisfied with Giles, a knight with but one manor, whose liege lord was Prince John, not Richard, England’s King. It was that which had given her some satisfaction. She knew Eleanor had selected her for this very reason; the Queen was not always so quick to take revenge but Isabella’s father had displeased her more than once. His annoyance had been the one thing in Giles’ favour. And her lands and portion had enhanced Giles’ own.

  Before her betrothal, she had seen Giles but twice. Once when she was eight, and John had paid a brief visit to her father’s largest manor. John had been positively avuncular, producing a silver ring from her ear, flipping it to her with careless charm as she gawped in amazement, chucking her under the chin while Giles de Soutenay stood behind him. Giles’ hawkish face had contrasted ill with John’s smiling charm.

  The next time she had encountered both men had been at her wedding to Baldwin. On that inauspicious day, John had been far different from the delightful magician who had teased a small girl. He had ogled her lasciviously during the feast, leering and making lewd jokes, as she huddled on the bed sick with fear while the priest performed the blessing.

  G
iles had been in the hall, unsmiling, disapproving, which had both pleased and displeased her. He had not joined his liege in the bedchamber, which had been a mark in his favour. Beyond that, she had known nothing of him.

  Two years on from her second marriage, she knew him to be a good and honourable man. Away from John’s employ, he no longer looked grim and unyielding; indeed, if not precisely handsome, he was far from unattractive to her.

  His temper was equable; he had shown no inclination to beat her – not once. There was warmth between them, and he talked to her as though her opinion mattered, something she still found strange but refreshing. She had slowly blossomed and learnt to care for him. But his Whitsuntide duty to John she could not understand, nor would he explain it to her. It stood like a wall between them. John she hated with her whole being. She shook her head almost imperceptibly. She would not think of it. Would not recall the memory. And now, as the date for his annual duty approached, he wanted her to come with him? No, she could not.

  Giles, watching her expression close, shook his head in exasperation. “Isabella, I know you like John not, know you like court company not, but you are my wife. I would have your presence there this year. Maude will be attending. She will look to you whilst I am with John. This year, I would have you bear me company. It will be only for a short while; I have little taste for court life either.”

  Giles could not have explained why he wanted her there, only that he did, and it would keep Heloise, one of the court whores, from him. She’d taken a fancy to him, seeming determined to seduce him, constantly sidling up and whispering softly in his ear. He had no problem resisting her, provocative though she might be, but it would give her less encouragement if Isabella were at his side.